The other, he decided on some level, making a full commitment to those two possible resolutions to their tactical situation. The other — and not us.
“Wait for it, now,” the chief said softly. “We’re safe right now. She’s lost us, she can’t hear us. She’s got to suspect we’re coming for her, but she has no idea where we are. Not yet.”
Renny found the words oddly soothing. He stole a moment to glance over at Otter and was relieved to see the calm, confident expression on the other man’s face. Yes, this was what they’d trained for, this was why they were here. They knew what to do, knew they were good at it. And before the hour was up, someone was going to learn that it was a very, very bad idea to shoot at the USS Centurion.
“Get them back here,” Batman roared, pounding on the TAO’s back. “Recall all fighters. Can’t you see it? Don’t you know what’s going to happen?” He grabbed the handset without waiting for an answer. “All aircraft, this is the admiral. Starboard marshall — now. If you’re getting low on fuel, we’ll handle that, but clear the area around the island’s airspace immediately. Acknowledge.” He dropped the mike from his mouth and waited for the responses.
One by one, the aircraft leads answered up. As they watched, the friendly aircraft symbols that had been boring in on Hawaii stopped, then the pixels pivoted to indicate that the aircraft were headed back to the carrier. Over tactical, it was clear that the operations specialists that normally coordinated the approaches on the carrier were quickly becoming overwhelmed. The airborne E- 2C Hawkeye stepped in, assuming control of the majority of the aircraft and vectoring them around the approach radials to a safe distance south of Jefferson.
Batman stared at the screen, the color drained from his normally ruddy face. “My god, we almost bought it that time.” By now, even the watch officer understood what he meant.
The airspace around Hawaii and the main channel was engorged with a spiderweb of long speed leaders projecting out from missile symbology as the surface ships leaving port opened fire on the hostile aircraft symbols. Had the Jefferson’s aircraft continued inbound on the island, most of them would have become missile sumps for the firepower the cruisers and frigates were unleashing.
Lieutenant Hot Rock had been next in line for the tanker when TFCC and the Hawkeye started shouting orders. After an initial period of confusion, he managed to sort out what happened. It was unbelievable, unthinkable — but there it was. An enemy attack on Pearl Harbor. One part of his mind kept insisting it was simply another part of the battle problem that they’d been working all week.
Hot Rock’s lead, Lieutenant Commander Lobo Hanson, grasped the situation faster than he did. “Come on, Hot Rock. Snap out of it. I don’t have time to baby-sit you. Get your ass up the high position.”
He yanked backed, putting the Tomcat into a sheer, bone-crushing ascent toward high position. The loose deuce fighting formation was the one preferred by most American pilots, and consisted of a team of two aircraft. One took high position, guarding the tail of the forward aircraft and providing additional area coverage because of increased radar range with altitude. The other aircraft took a lower altitude, slightly forward, and was usually the first engage the enemy aircraft.
A couple of cruises ago, high position had been Hot Rock’s favorite. Although he hadn’t been willing to admit to anyone, he had suspected that a deep streak of cowardice ran down his spine. The idea of facing incoming fire, facing it and ignoring it all as he took his own shot, had seemed beyond him. For a while, he managed to slide by on his superb flying skills, but eventually even his backseater reluctantly voiced his opinion.
But finally, when it came right down to it, he found he had what it took. Ever since that cruise, he’d finally felt a part of the fighting squadron.
Not that anyone had let on. Even Commander Magruder, CO of VF 95, hadn’t suspected just how terrified he was in the air. Oh, sure, in aerobatics, formation flying and practice bombing runs — he was above most of them when it came to that sort of stuff.
But when it came down to actually shooting, to facing down an enemy and fighting for your own little square piece of airspace, he backed off. The last time, it had almost gotten Lobo killed.
But that was behind him now. The squadron seemed to be willing to let his past go, and God knows for what reason, Lobo Hanson had decided he was all right. So when she said take high position, his hands and feet moved to obey before he could even get out a question.
But what the carrier was saying was insane, wasn’t it? An attack on Pearl Harbor?
Impossible. Absolutely impossible. As he climbed to altitude, he found himself wondering just how many men had said that before.
“Twenty miles,” his backseater announced. “You got a visual?”
“Yeah, I got it.” The islands of Hawaii stretched out as green and gray lozenges on the horizon. Even from this different distance, their volcanic origins were evident. You could see the islands’ ancestry in the rugged jagged peaks climbing up in the sky, the sheer black of hardened lava as the last of the sun hit it. From this angle, you could see the difference between the leeway and the windward sides of the island, with the former covered with lush green vegetation, and the latter less so.
So who was howling that enemy aircraft were inbound on the island? Boy, somebody was going to get their ass kicked when the admiral figured out who had screwed the pooch on this one.
The more Hot Rock thought about it, the more convinced he was that it was all a screwup. Maybe even part of the training. That had to be the explanation — some stupid-assed junior officer had seen something, maybe a weather balloon, maybe somebody burning trash, and had made the wild leap to assuming whatever it was that he saw was caused by an air attack.
Just then, he saw it, and immediately revised his opinion. Black smoke boiled up, stark and ugly against the verdant hills. He saw fire flashing up at the base of it, obscured higher up by the swirling smoke.
A civilian airliner crash, maybe. Maybe a chemical plant exploding. He was aware that he was grasping at straws now, trying desperately to find some other explanation for what his eyes told him. Anything, everything — it couldn’t be what the carrier was now saying.
“Ten miles.” Hot Rock heard the tension in his backseater’s voiced ratchet higher. So at least one of them inside this airframe believed what the carrier was saying. “Aw, shit! Look at the ships getting under way!”
He could see them now, the foamy wakes cutting swaths through the placid blue waters as the American fleet steamed toward the exit of the harbor. So many of them, crowded so impossibly close, at this distance looking more like light gray swatches against the water than actual Navy ships. But his link data confirmed it. Every combatant and every other Navy vessel capable of getting under way was steaming out from Hawaii.
But where were the other aircraft? He glanced down in his radar tactical display, and saw the picture beginning to build. The aircraft further ahead of him were picking them up on radar now, and as the ships lit off their combat systems and started feeding data to the battle group LINK, they were getting the advantage of the powerful SPY radar system.
Sure enough, there was something that looked awfully much like an enemy fighter pack clustered on the far side of the island. They were in the sort of minor disarray that normally follows a successful bombing run as aircraft break off on their assigned patterns and maneuver to avoid mutual interference. But they were starting to regroup now, probably transitioning from a land attack mode to getting ready for aerial combat.